


Wildflowers

by cecilantro



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Not A Fix-It, yasha spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:46:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilantro/pseuds/cecilantro
Summary: “Open yourfuckingeyes, Godsdammit. What do I have to do- what is it they’re calling you out there? Orphanmaker?”“Don’t fucking call me that.”--Yasha wakes up in her own head. She is not alone.





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> i have SO MANY EMOTIONS

“Yasha,” the voice that breaks through the shell of unconsciousness is familiar, “Yash. Come on, you have to get up.”

She’s tired. Bone-tired, blood-tired, it permeates every part of her. She can barely breathe, she’s so exhausted. Opening her eyes sounds like the most hideous torture.

“ _Yasha._ ” The voice says again, emphatically, “Fucking hell. If you can’t get your shit together _out there,_ at least open your eyes in here.”

It’s familiar. She can’t place how, or who the voice belongs to, but it’s familiar and safe. She doesn’t remember who’s talking to her, but she knows that she can trust herself to them. Her eyelids are heavy; they will not open. Her arms will not stir, let alone move.

“Come on, you arsehole- _Yash-hole,_ heh. Darling. Dear.” There is a hand, gentle on her upper arm. She cannot open her eyes, she concentrates on just staying alive. The voice hitches for a moment, sounding like a sob, before it comes again,  
“Open your _fucking_ eyes, Godsdammit. What do I have to do- what is it they’re calling you out there? Orphanmaker?”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

She’s surprised by how strong her voice comes out. She doesn’t will it to. She just thinks the words, and they come out like the terse growl she gives Nott when she’s charmed into shooting her. The hand on her arm tightens, excited,

“Oh, yeah? You don’t want me to call you that again, hm? Open your eyes then. Go on, I know you can do it.” Challenging. Daring. Familiar. She has missed this voice, she does not know why.

“ _Yasha_ ,” A second voice, more gentle, Yasha feels her heart break and heal and tears well but she cannot find the name to put the voice to. She aches to hear it again, and is immediately indulged, “You’re too strong to give up here. Open your eyes, my love.”

Yasha tries. She twitches. That’s more than before, she knows, and she feels like it will be just as easy-hard from here. But she has twitched. She cannot give up.

She feels both of her hands being taken on either side, one grip is firm but gentle and so achingly loving that all of Yasha’s form hurts. The other is tight, desperate, with the pinprick feeling of claws digging into the back of her hand. Just like Nott. Just like-

“I don’t think she can,” The first voice comes, but it is still challenging, not heartbroken. Yasha grits her teeth. If they want to challenge her, they are free to, she will not bow to that, “I don’t think she has the balls.”

“She does,” The second voice is turned to her, she can tell, “You do, Yasha. My Yasha. Come on, now.”

Yasha struggles. Just as she struggled under the beaten tutelage of the Stormlord, just as she struggled against her bonds that would not break, she struggles just to open her eyes and gasps for air and feels the grip on her hands tighten. One hand, the clawed ones, one finds her shoulder.

“I’ve never known you to give up, Yash.” It says, soft and sly all at once, “What about you? You’ve known her longer, after all.”

“You’ve known her your whole life.” The second voice comes back with the same gentle amusement. An amusement that Yasha has missed.

“True,” The first voice muses, “You’ve never given up before. Don’t give up now. Where do you find your strength, Yasha?”

“The Stormlord,” she answers in a half-gasp, like it’s her dying breath, “Jester.”

“Keep going,” The second, more gentle voice urges in the space she is silent,

“Caleb,” Yasha chokes, and hears a little intake of breath, “And- Fjord, Beau, Caduceus, Nott-”

“Who else?” The first voice, the pinprick-grip on her shoulder, on her hand,

“Molly,” Yasha cannot open her eyes but she struggles, “ _Zuala._

“That’s it,” The second voice urges, “You’re not alone. We believe in you, Yasha.”

There is a kiss on her forehead, a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and, in unison,

“Open your eyes.”

  
  


She does.

For a moment, there is only blinding light, white as opposed to the inhuman blackness she had been submerged in, she gasps as she sits up.

She knows this is not the conscious world by the sway of the bright wildflowers. They look just like the ones that Jester had painted in her room, but the sun above her feels real, the wind feels gentle, and there are two ghosts sat to either side of her.

“Yasha,” Mollymauk Tealeaf has been dead for months, but he is here and throws his arms around her, almost elated. She loops an arm around him as he looks to Zuala.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Zuala smiles, and ducks in to kiss her before she can agree.

They spend a few moments-turned-minutes there in the bright green grass, the sweet smell of wildflowers heavy in the unreal air around them, a group cuddle of corpses.

“Am I dead?”

Molly shakes his head slightly where it is pushes into her shoulder. Zuala’s smile softens to something sad,

“Sort of?”

“Not quite yes, not quite no.” Molly sits back with that same expression. Yasha always hated that face on him, moreso than the smug, cat-like smile. She gently slaps his face.

“What happened?”

Both Molly and Zuala raise their heads to look past her, and Yasha turns with dread in her stomach. She finds almost like a window, past the bright blue sky into a dark, dusty basin. She recognises it as the King’s Cage, the last place she remembers.  
She watches the window turn from the broken casket, whipping around and moving as though running, flames dying out as the heavy doors close, Nott holding the dagger key and staring at… her? Not her. Something like her, as hair flies in front of the window and the greatsword comes down a second too late onto the grand door. 

_“Yasha!”_

She hears Jester’s scream and winces, tears meet her eyes, and Molly leans into her.

“It’s all they could do,” He tells her gently, “for now.”

“I know, I don’t blame them for leaving… me?”

“Your body.” Molly grimaces, “Living body. Sometimes you have to leave the body behind. You can’t carry it with you.”

She looks over to him. Then to Zuala, smiling at her from her place cuddled into her shoulder.  
She’d seen neither of their bodies, only Molly’s grave, they’d taken nothing with them.

“You can’t carry it with you.” She repeats, slowly. She hears the warped, distant laughter coming from the numerous wounds of the Hand at her living body’s side as they both slam into the doors, shoulder, shoulder,

“I heard you,” She says out loud, and Molly nods,

“You said that to Fjord. When you missed him that time. I saw you fighting yourself, here,”

“You probably saved his life.” Zuala sets her hand on Yasha’s forearm, “If you’d hit him again, he wouldn’t have gotten back up.”

“I heard him.” Yasha loops an arm around either of them and pulls them both close. She shivers with her exhaustion, and they wind around her to try to keep her upright. The Orphanmaker and the Hand smash through the first door, and there is no sign of the Nein as they make their way onward.

“What do I do?” Yasha asks, voice small and scared and both Zuala and Molly cuddle in closer,

“Rest,” Zuala is the one to answer, “You rest, for now. You heal your soul, and then, when you are rested, you reclaim your body.”

“If only one of us gets back to them, it _better_ be you.” Molly adds with a pinpoint glare that she loves and misses so much that it aches. She misses them both. At least here, she is not alone.

“You can sleep now, if you want,” Zuala strokes Yasha’s hair- bright white- back from her eyes, “We can wake you, when it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Yasha looks to her, frowns, and Zuala shakes her head,

“We don’t know,” It’s Molly to answer, “Just when it’s time. Take a nap, Yash. We’ve got you.”

Yasha is exhausted. She curls into the grass, head laid in Zuala’s lap, legs strewn across Molly’s. She holds one each of their hands in her own.

“I miss you,” She murmurs, as she closes her eyes and watches those sad smiles on their faces.

“We know,” they murmur, “We miss you too.”

Yasha falls asleep amongst the wildflowers, and the memories of those she’d loved and lost blow away into petals on the breeze before she, herself, falls away to stasis.

Time only would find her at home in her body once more.


End file.
